


A Lesson In Deduction

by ladyblahblah



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Realization, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much to Holmes's frustration, Watson seems blind to even the most obvious of clues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson In Deduction

**Author's Note:**

> FLUFF.  NOTHING BUT FLUFF.  (Maybe the tiniest bit of angst at the end, but mostly fluff.  And it's hardly even angst.  Angst lite, maybe.  Diet Angst.)  This has a sequel which is even more badly written and OOC than this, and which may or may not be posted eventually.  Honestly, it's a bit embarrassing.

 

 

**"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work." --ACD  
**

 

 

 

“What on earth are you doing, Holmes?”

My friend sighed in frustration, one hand lifting to rub wearily at his eyes.

“Must I explain, Watson?  Can you still not, after all this time, deduce?”  He gestured towards the scene before us as if to indicate a wealth of clues that I had somehow overlooked.

I studied the scene, giving it my fullest concentration.  I so hated to fail when Holmes set a task like this before me; his expression of utter disappointment and disgust at my simple-mindedness was difficult to stand with any degree of calm.  Certainly if I tried hard enough I could bring myself, while not to Holmes’s level, at least to a degree of observational awareness that he could respect.

Seeing me stymied, Holmes raised his hands as if to tear out his hair.  “Must we go through this again?” he muttered, though I had the distinct impression that he was speaking more to himself than to me.  “It’s a very simple exercise, doctor, requiring only the minutest amount of effort.  Simply look at the evidence before you and gather it into a reasonable conclusion; it’s something that even a child could do!”

“Insulting me will hardly induce my cooperation, Holmes,” I said, unable to keep the defensive tone out of my voice.

“I apologize,” he said off-handedly, without any indication that he meant it at all.  “Voice the clues aloud if it helps you to think,” he suggested.

“Very well,” I said irritably.  I focused my attention once more on what lay before me.  There was no opposing Holmes when he got in one of these moods.  “There is a table,” I said at last, “laid with a supper for two.  Not curious in itself, though the fare looks rather more decadent than our usual.  In fact, it looks like the veal cutlets from Romano’s.”  I ventured a glance at him.  “It would be safe to say, I presume, that you have obtained this from a restaurant, rather than from Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes, yes,” he nodded, looking half-pleased and half-frustrated.  “What else?”

 “Candlelight,” I ventured.  “Not at all usual.” I frowned.  “Has something happened to the gas?”

“No, Watson,” he ground out.  “The gas is in perfect working order.”

“But . . . in that case I see no need for the candles at all, and I confess I still have no idea what you are about.”

Holmes let out a groan of unbridled frustration.  “It’s a wonder I don’t give up on you entirely!  Very well, I shall give you one further hint.  But it really _shall_ be the last one.”

And before I knew what was happening I found myself in his arms, his mouth pressed firmly to mine.  My mind, as I believe you will understand, went entirely blank.  I was unable to do more than stand there, my heart racing as my dearest friend held me locked in a passionate embrace.

Holmes pulled away at last; he released me and stepped back, though his gaze remained fixed on mine. 

“Holmes,” I said, and I was not surprised to discover that my voice was little more than a croak.  “You kissed me.”

“Nicely spotted, Watson,” he said sardonically.  “But what does that tell you?  Remember my little maxim,” he added softly, “that when you eliminate the impossible whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

With new eyes I looked around at the candlelit dinner, at the champagne chilling nearby.  “Are you trying to . . . seduce me?”

“At last!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air.  “It is comforting, at least, to know that you can recognize the truth once it has been quite literally thrust in your face.”

He made as if to grab me again, and I stepped back in alarm.

“What can you be thinking?  You—we—can’t . . .”

“I fear I must dispute that point, Watson.  We most certainly can.”

“It’s illegal,” I managed weakly.

Holmes waved that away.  “Since when have we concerned ourselves with the pettiness of the law?  Have you and I not broken into homes?  Withheld information from the police that would certainly lead to an arrest and conviction?  I have lost track of the laws we have broken together; one more, and one that concerns no one but ourselves, will hardly make a difference.”  He turned away to pace the small sitting room, frustration evident in his every step.  “We are wasting time with trivial matters.”  He had begun to mutter to himself again.  “If you had absorbed _anything_ I’ve been trying to teach you over these past years, you would have deduced my intentions immediately and I would have you moaning beneath me in my bed by now.”

Those words conjured up a very vivid mental image: I had a sudden flash of Holmes pinning me to the narrow mattress, my body arching as his mouth trailed along my neck.  God help me, something in me stirred at the thought. 

Something in my face must have given me away, for when Holmes looked at me again his face grew predatory.  He ceased his pacing and drew closer.

“Watson,” he said, his voice lowered to a purr that sent shivers down my spine.

“No,” I protested, and turned away.  It was unnatural.  A perversion.  My piqued curiosity could be put down to a moment of madness, nothing more.

“I’m afraid I can’t accept that as an answer.”  Holmes had approached quite near by now, so that his voice sounded directly behind me.  “I _will_ have you in my bed tonight, unless you can do one of two things.  Your first option is to give me just one good, solid reason why letting me drive you mad with pleasure would be at all wrong or immoral.”

“And the second?” I rasped.

“The second option is ‘passing easy.  Simply tell me that you do not want me.  I have no intention of forcing you, Watson; if you can tell me truly, in the Queen’s own English, that you have no desire for me, this will be the last that you will ever hear me mention such a thing.”

I stood, staring at the drawn curtains—another overlooked clue as to Holmes’s intentions tonight, I realized—searching frantically for something to say.  The possibilities that the night suddenly held were frightening; I wanted desperately to erase them, to return things to the easy way that they had been only an hour ago.  I found, however, that I could not.

Despite my reserve, I could in all honesty find nothing inherently wrong with what Holmes was proposing.  I was not such a strongly religious man that I truly feared any divine retribution.  The act would involve no one but ourselves, as he had said, and would hurt neither of us.  Indeed, in light of other things that we had done, other laws and social mores that we had broken, this seemed a trifling affair indeed.

Nor did the second option he had given hold any solace for me.  I could not ignore my response to Holmes’s kiss, nor my body’s reaction to the thought of how those long, elegant fingers of his could be put to use.  My heartbeat had sped, my breath shortened.  I might not like it, but I could not deny it.  I wanted him.

As he turned me ‘round to face him I wondered how long this had been going on.  Had I wanted him from the beginning, from the very moment he had turned to face me that fateful day at St. Bart’s?  Had it begun, perhaps, after his Study in Scarlet, that first whirlwind case where my admiration for him had bloomed?

His mouth was lowering to mine again and I realized that it hardly mattered when the wanting had begun.  All that mattered was that I was desperate to taste his kiss again.  His lips were only an inch from mine, when—

I awoke with a start.  I had dozed off sitting in my armchair; Holmes was seated across from me, absorbed in the afternoon edition of the _Daily Chronicle_.  He glanced up when he felt me staring at him.

“Everything all right, Watson?” he inquired with a slight frown.  “You look a bit pale.”

“Yes.  Yes, I’m fine.”  I ran a shaky hand over my face.  “Odd dream, that’s all.”

Apparently the agony column was more interesting than my subconscious, as he merely nodded and turned back to the paper.  As I looked at him I couldn’t help but notice the strong sweep of his jaw, the thin, alluring line of his lips. 

Bloody hell.  I was lusting after my best friend.

What in the name of God was I to do?

 

 


End file.
